Feeling Irie in Jamaica

Right, since this is a travel blog, I guess we should post some stuff, every now and again, about travelling. It's only fair. You people have paid good money. Erm, actually,  you've paid no money at all, but let's not split hairs (or dreadlocks) over that. We will give the people what they want. And by "we" I mean me. This blog will be called "B's Excellent Adventures with a Non-Blogging Toss Fuck" from now on. (This is to be noted in the minutes of this meeting and executed by the person in charge of blog names. Unless that is said-toss fuck).

 

So, we recently went to Jamaica for a few days, and from what we can remember of it, we had a wonderful time! Between the rum punches and erm.. other stuff... it's hard to keep track of things on the island.

 

Now, when most people think of Jamaica, they think of Kingston or Montego Bay (mostly because people aren't very imaginative or well-educated), but we decided to head out to the cliffs of Negril. You would think because Negril is high (pardon the pun) on the cliffs, it wouldn't get hit by tsunami waves, but you'd be wrong. Rick's Cafe, which is world famous for its cliff jumpers, had to be totally rebuilt in 2004 when 80ft waves crashed over the cliffs and destroyed the joint (pardon the pun again) during Hurricane Ivan.

Luckily, Hurricane Sandy missed Jamaica completely, or else we wouldn't have had as many bars to go to while we were there.

 

From our 4 days there, this is what we can tell you:

 

1. Marijuana is illegal in Jamaica. I know, right? How is that possible? Everywhere you go, and sometimes even when you haven't gone anywhere and are asleep in your bed, you can smell it: weed, ganga, spliff, MaryJane, doobie, etc. It is the signature-scent of Jamaica - it wafts on the breeze and leaves you feeling very chilled and craving chocolate cookies. It gets offered to you everywhere, and I mean everywhere, by everyone. Your waiter, the barman, the gardener (especially the gardener because he's growing the shit, isn't he?), etc. Each person will tell you they're the person to buy from and how their grass will leave you feeling the most irie. It's illegal to grow, possess or smoke it and yet everyone is dealing and smoking it everywhere. In public. Go figure. That explains why everyone in Jamaica is so damn relaxed and happy.

 

2. The standard response to anything you ask a Jamaican is, "Yeah mon. No problem, mon" This can be in response to any of these variations:

 

• Could you call a taxi for me please?
• Could I please have another rum punch?
• Would you help me bury this pesky dead body I've been carrying around in my luggage?
• Could I have relations with your goat?

3. The best food in Jamaica is "jerk" flavoured. And just like a group of housewives in Bloem will compete against each other at the church bazaar to see whose brandy tart is the best during a bake-off competition, Jamaicans will compete in jerk-offs. I kid you not. Now, what is jerk? It's a form of cooking where chicken/beef/seafood is dry-rubbed or wet-marinated by jerk spice (made primarily from pimento and Scotch bonnet peppers). It is out of this world. It will tear you a new one, so be prepared.

 

If you haven't been to Jamaica yet, why the hell not, mon?

Reminders and creative juices

Apologies that there hasn't been a blog post in ages! I normally use our blog for an outlet for all those creative juices, but now that I'm studying creative writing, all my creativity goes into writing my assignments and getting my course work done.

 

Of course, I tried to bully Poodle into pulling his blogging weight with the old: "This blog is not just mine, it has both of our names on it, Mister. When last did you post anything? This is not fair, I can't do everything. It's your turn." This whining nag-rant would have had a lesser man in tears, but not Poodle.

 

Poodle proceeded to put a post-it reminder on his computer. Two weeks ago. With all the other reminders that go on there. And never get executed. Poodle is a firm believer that if the post-it reminder has been written, the task will finish itself.

And when I nagged him about it again this morning, he said he was super-busy and didn't have time to come up with an idea to blog about. I then pointed out that he was on his way to gym, and couldn't he possibly use the time, while gyming, to think up an idea.

 

To which he replied in absolute horror, "You want me to think while bench-pressing?"

 

Men. I rest my case.

 

It might be a while until the next post.

The highlights post

So... we have a blog. I use the term "we" loosely here, because even though this blog is meant to be a team effort, apparently there is no "Steve" in "team". And most of what we blog about, has been the more memorable events since we've arrived in Canada. But there are a lot of little incidents that occur on a day-to-day basis that make us laugh - most of which can't take up a blog post on their own, so generally don't get mentioned.

 

So every now and again, "we're" going to throw in a "highlights" post -  something that includes a few anecdotes/memorable moments that we've had along the way.

 

Here are a few of them:

 

1.   A lot of Canadians will listen to you speak, and suddenly go, “Oh my God! I love your accent”, and while you swell with pride, they go on to say things like: “I just love you Brits/Germans/Albanians”. We were on a guided boat tour one day when the tour guide told us how much she loves our accent, and how she has a Scottish friend, and she’s always making him read the newspaper or adverts to her because she loves our accent so much. Ooookayyyy. So after that, Stephen and I have taken to speaking to each other in Scottish accents. Abysmal Scottish accents, it must be said, but still. So the other day, in a shoe shop, Stephen said something and I replied, in my best guttural accent, with, “I kannee awurreee abooot that nooo.” I thought I was so good, it was a pity I wasn’t wearing a kilt. And the woman in the shop turned around and said, “Oh my God! I love your accent. You from Australia?” Bollocks, we've been banjanxed!

2.  We’ve had quite a few memorable moments on subways and buses besides the crazy soup lady that I blogged about. Stephen sat next to a black man on the subway, who spent the entire journey muttering under his breath how much he hates the whites and how he plans to kill them all. When Stephen asked, “Julius, is that you?”, the guy replied that his name was Africa, and what kind of black man has a name like Julius? I kid you not - you can not make this shit up! Then, I had an older gentleman (must have been in his 70s) tell me, also on the subway, that I look like a frisky young Demi Moore, and would I like to join him for dinner on his boat. When I asked if his boat needed Viagra to stay afloat, he burst out laughing, called me “sassy” and then shiftily put away the bottle of pills he’d been hopefully clutching. Considering that I’ve seen the activity sheet for a nearby retirement village, and that most of the scheduled talks are about geriatric sexuality and how to use a sex swing without breaking a hip, the old codger is clearly the poster boy for his generation. You go Grandpa!

3.   We went to Awenda National Park for camping, and there’s a stunning beach there on the lake that’s just for dogs. Stephen and I went for a walk to have a look at it, and we got chatting to a woman and her partner, who had their dogs on the beach. I was just telling her that we had issues getting Muggle to come back when we let her off leash and called her back, when she said to me, “I have crack cocaine”. What the hell do you say to that? “That’s great, can I have some?” or "Your mother must be so proud! Is she your dealer?". If you don’t know someone very well, it’s hard to assess if they’re being serious or not. I’ve had moments here where people say things like, “I really love Justin Bieber”,  and I burst out laughing only to establish that they’re being serious, and are now very pissed off with me for dissing a Canadian treasure. Off topic, I got chatting to a young Irish hairdresser one day, and after five minutes of us talking, he said, “Darling, I love your sense of humour, but I tink you’re going to piss a lot of Canadians off”. Apparently Canadians have a very PC sense of humour and are easily offended. I look forward to properly investigating this and letting you know. So when a Canadian woman tells you that she has crack cocaine, you kinda think it isn’t a joke and you’ve attracted the weirdos once again. I think I muttered, “That’s nice”, before starting to sidle away, when she reached into her pocket, pulled something out, shoved it at me, and said, “Here it is”. Turned out to be freeze-dried liver which the dogs love and will do anything for. She was suggesting we  use it as bait for when we’re calling Muggle back to us. So much for my first Canadian experience with drugs.

4.  Our pet sitter is called Lois, and every time I’d call her to check if she’s free, she’s answer the phone, “Hi there, this is Lois Lane”. I’d kill myself laughing, even though it got tired the third or fourth time, but I wanted to humour her as she clearly got a kick out of impersonating Superman’s girlfriend. Last weekend, we arrived home to a note she’d written to us about the dogs. And it was written on her business card which stated “Lois Lane”. As her real name. I mean come on! Who names their kid that? I wanted to die thinking of how rude she must have thought me to be every time I called her and laughed at her! The last time I did that was in SA, and the guy’s name was Blackie Swart, which I also thought was a joke. Especially since he was racist. It's like being called Sakkie de Kock and being homophobic!

5.  I have a very sarcastic sense of humour – some of you may know that about me. So when I walk my very pretty Golden Retriever, and she’s wearing a pink collar, a pink harness and a pink lead, as well as having shiny pink bling around her neck, and some woman asks me, “Is that a boy or a girl?”, I’m gonna get sarcastic. “It’s a boy,” I said, “He’s just gay and we feel we should allow him to express his feminine side.” I did not expect her to exclaim in all seriousness, “Oh my God, how did he tell you?". It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been stopped two days later by another woman with a very butch-looking Alsatian on a green lead. She sidled up to me and whispered, "I hear you're the one with the gay dog. I think my Jodie is a lesbian. Got any tips?".

 

Ah yes. Never a dull moment in Canadia :-)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part two - run for your life!

So where was I? Oh yes, there I was in the Don River valley, walking along one of the trails with Muggle (might have forgotten to mention Muggle in the last post). Stephen and I generally walk the dogs together, but if he’s working and Muggle starts getting psychotic (launching herself from the kitchen counter onto the TV ninja-style), I’ll take her out by myself. I used to be able to walk both her and Dobby together, but once Dobby discovered the squirrels, she started pulling on the lead so hard that one day she pulled me right off my feet. Which wouldn’t have been too bad if Muggle hadn’t spotted the river and pulled me in the exact opposite direction at that exact moment, so that I ended up lying on the ground crucifixion-style, hanging onto two dogs. I now understand why being pulled apart like that was considered a really cool form of torture in the middle ages.

 

 

 

Hmmm, wonder if that’s where chiropractics began?

But I digress.

I was walking along the trail with Muggle, marvelling at the beauty of the day, when there was a loud crack to my right, a large bush snapped aside and a huge figure materialised. It all happened in a split second, and I only saw the figure out of the corner of my eye, but it was big and coming directly at me.

It’s amazing how the mind and body work under these conditions. I know some people who are literally paralysed with fright under these circumstances and can not move for love nor money. My mind generally does a weird Matrix-type manoeuvre, and my thoughts will diverge into a multiple-choice set-up in which I think each thought very clearly and consider each option simultaneously. Which sounds pretty cool, but which is very, very annoying.

These are the things that went through my mind at that split-second:

1. Oh. My. God. It’s the crazy guy that’s been killing people and chopping them up and running around Ontario, scattering body parts like confetti. He seems to like hands particularly. I should be safe then. I don’t have very pretty hands. Unless he cuts them off because they’re ugly and he’s offended by them. Then I’m in shit.

2. If he says, “Hello Clarice”, I can just tell him it’s a case of mistaken identity. Hopefully he’ll step back into the bushes and wait for Jodie, and I can be on my way.

 

 

3. Muggle will save me! Bwaa ha ha, I’m so funny! Muggle will not save me. Unless her rolling over and peeing herself will distract him or make him point and laugh. In which case, we can buy some time. But I’ll have to carry her while I’m running and that will slow us down. Who am I kidding? I can’t run and carry Muggle. I can even carry Muggle. I’ll have to drag her. Why didn’t we get a smaller dog? Or a hamster. It would have been way easier to escape a psychopath with a hamster! That sentence’s structure needs to be relooked at. It makes it sounds like the psychopath has the hamster, not me. Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? Assessing sentence structure as I’m probably about to be murdered!

4.  Should I run at him? That might throw him off. He’s probably used to women running away, so this could gain me some advantage. Do the unexpected! Use the element of surprise! Never let them take you to the second location! Who said that? Oprah? Ah man, I love Oprah.

There were a few more thoughts, but I can’t remember them now. So, I decided to go with the element of surprise. I turned to launch myself at my attacker, let go of Muggle’s lead, yelled, “Run Muggle! Run! Don’t let him get your hands!”  and came eyeball to eyeball with a big-ass deer. Who, by the looks of it, was thinking:

1. What the HELL is this crazy-assed bitch think she’s doing coming all up in MY face with THAT attitude?

2. She’s telling the dog not to let me get its hand. Dogs do not have hands. Oh. My. God. She is the crazy person killing people in Ontario and collecting hands. She’s making the dog hide the evidence!

3. I think I will run away from her and crap as I’m doing it. That will probably slow her down. I think she’s after my hooves. Bitch is not gonna get these hooves. They were half-off at the Jimmy Choo sale.

So the deer does an about turn and bounds off through the trees, leaving nothing but deer poop in its wake. Which I briefly consider collecting in Muggle’s cute little bright pink poop bags. Not because I’m cleaning up after the deer, you understand (the signs in Toronto don’t say: “Keep your deer on a lead” and “Please clean up after your deer”), but because this will be evidence of my encounter.  To show our neighbour Jaryd who said the deers were urban myths.

But then I realise that would be weird. And also Muggle has found a new route into the river, and is starting to do backstroke towards the ducks, which will end badly for all concerned. I turn and watch the deer run away from me, and think: I hope it blogs about me.

If you go into the woods today...

One of the many, many things I love about Toronto, is that you can go from bustling urban metropolis to wild natural habitat within just a few minutes. One minute you’re on the concrete sidewalk, cars whizzing by you, the sounds of the city (construction, ambulances, aeroplanes) closing in and assaulting your senses,  and the next minute, you’re standing with your feet in the dirt, tangled vines cocooning you, giant trees dwarfing you and... nothing... silence... except for the chirping of birds and the psychotic chatter of a pissed-off squirrel nearby. (Squirrels seem to spend a lot of time pissed-off; I don’t know why, that’s just the way it is).

 

 

 

Just mere steps from our apartment lies a sprawling mass of parklands in the Don River valley, and this is where we walk our dogs every day. Trails branch out for miles in every direction, and you can walk for ages without leaving the protection of the trees and the reassuring burbling of the river. The parklands are filled with birdlife and smaller critters (mostly squirrels, groundhogs, mice and racoons). There have even been talk of deer-sightings, but this is brushed off as the stuff of urban myths. Muggle loves swimming in the river, and Dobby has become obsessed with those damn squirrels – this valley is their happy place. We literally have to drag them out of it at least twice a day when we head for home after walks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A great thing too is that I mostly feel safe walking here. I don’t want to draw comparisons between here and Joburg, but I know that I wouldn’t have felt safe walking the dogs alone at Emmarentia Dam during the week when the park is mostly deserted. It’s just one of those things.

However, no place in the world is totally safe, and you get psychopaths everywhere – Canada is no exception. All you need to do is look at the excess of body parts that have been turning up all over Canada to realise that Canadian psychos are just as active as South African psychos. And they especially love parks. Nice.

So even when I’m walking alone along a quiet trail, feeling safe, there’s always a part of me that’s a bit nervous. And this isn’t my South African part; this is the side of me that went through a hectic psychological-thriller reading phase for a few years. The side that knows you never walk past panel vans, because their doors will slide open and you will be shoved inside by homicidal maniacs. Also the side of me that knows that the excess skin that flaps under my arms when I do the YMCA can be turned into a cute little purse for some fashion-conscious weirdo with a sewing machine.

Which is why I completely and utterly shat myself yesterday when walking along one of the more isolated trails in the valley, and something large suddenly leapt out at me from behind a bush.

To be continued... Not to create suspense (I’m clearly alive and not dismembered if I’m writing this) but because this is a long story. Like most of my stories. Deal with it.

Bright lights... big coolerboxes

Okay, so most people who do travel blogs, will tell you about their destinations, and about what they saw, how much it cost, how beautiful it was, where to eat, where to stay, how to get around, etc. Which I think it pretty damn dull, unless you're heading there yourself, and need that kind of information.

 

We recently travelled to the Niagara region in Ontario so, here's the disclaimer: if you're heading to Niagara and want to know all that stuff, this is not the blog post for you.

 

There are hundreds of really good travel blogs that will tell you interesting stuff about the falls, how much the Maid of the Mist cost, the cool jet ski boat you can take through the rapids, where the best wine estates are, etc, etc.

 

Our travel blog offers you something much more interesting.... and useful... which is this.... how to sneak booze into hotels in Canada and the US.

 

South Africans are particularly skilled in this. When we go to Sun City or "larney" hotels in Cape Town, we all know that the bar fridge is going to be off limits. You'll have to take out a second bond if, God forbid, you want that tiny little packet of nuts, or dinky bottle of wine tucked away in the little fridge in your hotel room. You'll generally stay strong and not even touch anything in it, unless you make the rookie mistake of allowing yourself to wake up hungover. And then you don't give a flying rat's ass that a small tin of coke will cost you the equivalent of your first car. You'll wrestle your tongue down from your dry palate and crawl to the fridge, thanking your lucky stars that help is at hand.

 

Keeping this in mind, most South Africans, when travelling locally or abroad, will either fill their suitcase with booze from home, or will find the bottle store nearest to their hotel. Then they'll come clinking and clanking through the reception area, avoiding the concierge's beady eyes,  desperate to hide the fact that they're cheap bastards who won't pay hotel prices.

 

Not so in Canada and the US. Guys, when you travel here, you don't have to wrap your booze in clothes in your suitcase. You don't have to leopard-crawl through the back door with your hidden stash.

 

Here is the secret...

 

You take a cooler box from home. You fill it to the max with wine, beers, shooters, spirits and ice. And then you...(wait for it)... carry it proudly inside the hotel with you. You put it on display. You look to see if your cooler box is bigger than everyone else's, and if not, you vow to do better next time. You make the bell hop drag it to the lifts and down the corridor and you yell, "Easy does it, young fella. That's all my liquor in this here cooler."

 

Ah yes. Canada and the US. Bright lights... big cooler boxes.

 

 

 

 

 

The four letter "C" word - lost in translation

Words are powerful. There's no doubt about it.

And since I chose to study English and communications, and then chose a career dedicated to teaching communicating, I didn't think this was something I needed to be reminded of. But today, for the first time in quite a while, I was reminded of our national identity, and how so much of it is tied up in the words we choose to use. And the words we don't use. Unless you're in a Virgin Active gym apparently.

I'm talking of course of those words that South Africans know are taboo. Words that are not to be used, and that can cause great hurt, anger and offense if they are used. Especially in Virgin Active gyms!

There are certain words that can make a South African twitch if they are uttered aloud, or written by supermodels on their idiotic Facebook status updates. And the four lettered racist "C" word is one of those words. (Err, this word is not to be confused with the other four letter "C" word which is also bad). I battle to even write it here within the context of this post without twitching, but I have to use the word as it was used today, so that you can relate to my angst.

Right, so as many of you know, we've come to Canada so that we can travel a lot more than we did from SA, which sometimes requires leaving our zoo of two dogs and two cats at home. We schlepped them to Toronto, but it won't always be practical or fair to schlep them around on our travels with us now that we're here. In SA, when we went overseas, my wonderful parents always moved into our home, and looked after our fur babies. Often for weeks at a time, and so well, that our animals never looked that excited to have us back.

Alas, things are different here. We don't really know anyone, and aren't prepared to leave our babies with just anyone, so an intensive interviewing process has taken place to find the right person to move into our home and look after our zoo when we travel.

The candidate we most liked was a 66 year old woman who loves animals, and supplements her pension and combats boredom by house sitting people's pets. She came highly recommended, and the interview was going really well until:

Her: So, how does Muggle feel about coons?
Me (spitting out my water at the mention of the no-no "C" word) : I beg your pardon?
Her: Coons! Coons! Does she hate them? A lot of dogs hate those damn coons, and if they see them, they chase them. You can't blame them, can you? I don't like those damn coons either. There are a lot of them moving into the suburbs which is a big problem. They're always in your garbage and running around at night. They have sneaky eyes - you can't trust a coon! Can I let Muggle off her lead to chase a coon if she wants to? They hardly ever catch them to bite them, which is a pity".

Picture me twitching every time the lady said "coon". I was horrified. Toronto is the most multi-cultural city in the world, which is one of the things I most love about it. It threw the world's biggest Pride parade in July, and has a huge Canadian bank that proudly sponsors it. There are people here from every nationality living, mostly, in harmony. It makes eavesdropping that much harder, because so many languages are spoken here. How was it possible that I was hearing such blatant racism?

I started to splutter and stammer about Muggle being a non-racist dog, and her fully accepting people of all races, and that we would never allow her to attack anyone, and how in South Africa, some of Muggle's best friends were black (often Labradors but still!), and that I couldn't hire someone whose values and ethics were so clearly questionable.

She stared at me blankly and innocently, and then asked what any of that had to do with raccoons. Which they call coons over here.

Oooooh raccoons.

Amazing the power that a word, that's totally innocent in one culture, can have in another one. Damn raccoons really are going to be a problem after all.



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Blood banks

Thanks to Globalisation, you can travel across the world, and still sometimes feel like you never left home. You expect to feel like you're a world away, but a lot of things are, disappointingly, the same. The same shops, cars, foods, programs, etc. We even have a Nando's less than 1km away from our apartment, for God's sake.

But every so often, if you're lucky, you'll experience something that will remind you that you're not in Kansas anymore.

I had one of those moments this morning at our bank. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but in Joburg, if you're about to walk into a bank, and the door is flung open from the inside by bank employees running outside, you're quite likely to beat a hasty retreat. I was in Northgate once when bank robbers were fleeing FNB and shooting up the place, and when the bank staff started to run, no one hung around to question why. They ran too.

So, when two of the RBC staff members charged the door, I smugly thought what all patriotic South Africans think when they're overseas and shit happens: "Aha! Banks don't only get robbed in SA, they get robbed everywhere! So much for South Africa being dangerous!" and then I rushed inside hoping to experience my first Canadian bank robbery.

I was most disappointed to not find any guys wearing balaclavas and waving guns while yelling, "Get the cash oot or the moose gets it- and don't bother with none of them loonies and toonies!"

Instead, I found a really old lady, sitting on a chair... bleeding from her big toe. It looked like she'd stubbed it on the bank door - silly old goose.

"What a bunch of sissies the tellers are here," I thought. All running at the sight of blood. A second later, I saw that they'd actually rushed next door to the dentist to get an emergency first aid kit. They returned and then started to bandage the old lady's toe up.

Now here was the first mind fuck. They held her bleeding toe, cleaned it, got bled on more and never once mentioned wearing gloves or not touching blood. Now guys, as many of you know, we looked after a few HIV positive kids in our time in South Africa. And the ignorance of the toss fucks who made an issue of this was enough to push me over the edge. I'd hear things like, "Now Shnookums, don't let that little black girl drink from your juice box or you can get AIDS."

Or, "I just wiped your little girl's nose. Can I get the HIV virus from that? Should I go get tested?"

And don't get me started about the hysteria that the sight of a drop of blood could cause.The fact that the virus dies when it comes into contact with air was a concept more difficult to comprehend than quantum physics to most of these people, and I've been offered latex gloves more times than I count. Once even when I went to pick up a crying HIV positive baby. WTF people?

And yet here were these Canadians, touching blood with their bare hands, and not looking at the bleeding person like their blood was about to murder them.

Just when I thought my levels of astonishment could not reach any higher, up pulled an ambulance and out rushed two paramedics. To tend to a clumsy old lady and her injured toe. And they'd arrived within minutes of the bank manager calling them.

Well, slap me silly and call me gobsmacked. That's pretty damn impressive.

Mind you, what's also impressive is that a South African Tannie in Krugersdorp in the same boat would just have pulled out some Klippies from her bag, chugged it back for the pain, and damn well gotten on with it without all the damn fuss.


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Part 2 of "How to train your Muggle"

Continued from previous post...

So there we were, me coaxing Muggle all the way to obedience training by feeding her the treats I was told to bring for training, and trying to stop her from having an absolute nervous breakdown on the way.

That's when the fuckwit skipped the red light, and almost ran her over.

(Allow me this quick aside. I'm an avid people watcher, and since we've been here, I've watched quite a few road rage incidents with great fascination. Firstly, let me just say that very few Canadians have what I thought would be the Canadian accent. Not many of them say, "I'll be oot and aboot 'ey!". Even if you ask them nicely. Especially if you ask them nicely. Which is a huge pity. Most of them sound disappointingly American. So I studied how they insult one another in traffic, which came in very handy during my exchange with the fuckwit who almost ran over my dog).

Picture the scene:

Fuckwit brakes just inches from Muggle who is crossing a major intersection.
Muggle has the nervous breakdown I'd been trying to avoid.
I storm up to the man's car, wanting to lean in his window, but get stopped short by the lead I'm holding onto. Muggle is a dead weight and refuses to budge from the middle of the road. I settle, instead, for pounding on the man's bonnet (which is called the "hood" here), and I start yelling in an American accent, while waving my arms around a lot:
"Hey man! What the fuck's your fucking problem? Waddaya think yer doin' ? Are you trying to kill my dog? What are you? Like some kind of dog hater? Is that your problem? Are you a dog murderer? Do you want me to kick your ass? Is that what you want? For me to kick your lily livered, yellow bellied, dog murdering ass? Because I will! I will kick your dog-hating damn ass!"

I think I did a fairly good emulation of the road rage incidents I'd seen, because he gave me the finger which is mandatory, but it lacked menace. I could see he wanted to get the hell away from the crazy dog lady, but Muggle was still lying in the road. I swaggered away in triumph, but the effect was kind of ruined by me having to lift up a 30kg dog, and drag her across the intersection while she gnawed on my wrist.

After ten minutes and another bag of treats, we were able to start walking again, and finally got to the class which was being held in a basement of a church. A puppy class was just letting out and 10 gorgeous 2-5 month old puppies came running out. I was in heaven. I spread myself across the doorway so they all had to climb over me to leave. I firmly believe puppy breath should be bottled and used as a natural anti-depressant.

Then our class started.

First thing I was asked was to get out the training treats. I groveled and groveled in my rucksack, but there were none left. I'd used up 2 bags of treats just getting Muggle to the class! Needless to say, we did not make a good first impression by appearing unprepared. The fact that Muggle then walked up to the trainer, wagged her tail, burped loudly and then vomited two bags of treats on her sandals did not help either.

I thought we'd be unceremoniously ejected from training at that point, but lucky for us, Winston chose that moment to make his big entrance. Winston is also a Golden Retriever and is even more psycho than Muggle; if that's possible. He didn't vomit on the trainer, but he did run up and start humping her leg. I've never been happier to see a horny dog in my life.

After that, the training didn't go too badly. Of course, Muggle was besotted with Winston, but isn't that always the way? Chicks of all species just love bad boys. Gonna have to keep an eye on that horny little bastard over the next 6 weeks.


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Trying to train a Muggle

So we signed Muggle up for obedience training, and I was not at all looking forward to taking her. In order for you to understand why, you need to know a few things about Muggle:

1. She is psychotic. Seriously. She'll start off chasing her tail on the floor, get distracted by shiny objects, do a Kung Fu/Matrix move to get her on the bed (while still chasing her tail), fall off the bed, bounce off the cat, ricochet off Dobby, stop all activity.... Shake her head to clear her thoughts... And then go, "I have a tail! Woo Hoo!", and start the skirmish with herself all over again.
2. She is clumsy. As fuck. She can't walk a straight line on a level surface without falling over. A lot.
3. She suffers from OCD. She has these weird little quirks that can drive you nuts: she'll only walk on your right, she won't step on cracks in the pavement, she won't go for pees and poops on the same outing (one output per walk), and she insists on sleeping on our heads at night - she refuses to sleep anywhere else.
4. She thinks a wrist is a chew toy and a man's crotch is a trampoline. Ask Poodle, Don, Kevin, Pierre, my Dad, my brother, Shayne and just about every penis possessor who has braved a visit. They all arrive screaming, "No Muggle, not my bollocks!", and leave talking in a higher pitch.
5. She thinks butterflies and moths are disobedient snacks with wings.

The closest training class is 1km away, which seemed fairly do-able when I booked the class while we were still in SA. I started to seriously have doubts though once Muggle arrived in the city, and was freaked out by aircon units, cars, ants, plants, leaves, bikes, people, grass, her own paws, Dobby, us and just about everything else.

Anyway, training day dawned and I was told to bring a lot of treats for reward training, which I did. Muggle and I set off to walk the 1km to her class.

We got past the automatic sliding doors of a nearby shop with minimal freaking out. I gave her a few treats and coaxed her on. A rogue Yorkie caused her to stumble, but she kept going in the direction of a few more treats. A bus that pulled up next to us almost set her off, but she was convinced to forge ahead with a few more treats. As we were crossing a major intersection, some fuckwit almost skipped the robot, and he came to a screeching halt a few inches away from her.

To be continued.... Sorry, but I'm long winded and these stories need to be told properly. No shouting at me.


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Public transport is not for sissies

Continued from previous post...

So there I am, on the bus, about to reach for my iPod, when a woman gets on. There are seats available, but she ignores all of them, and walks straight up to a guy sitting there minding his own business. He's in his late twenties, fairly nondescript, doesn't have a book or earphones - he's just sitting there daydreaming.

But she stalks right up to him and boy, does she look like someone peed in her Coco Pops.

I put my iPod away, wondering if this is a lovers' spat. She obviously knows him. She's very clearly pissed off. Maybe he slept with her and then didn't call her. Woo Hoo! I'm about to witness a telling-off of note. I silently cheer her on - this is clearly a woman who does not take shit.

This is how the conversation plays out:

Her: You must stop eating pea soup!

(Hmm, not what I was expecting at all. Okay, so he slept with her, ate all her pea soup and then didn't call her).

He looks at her blankly.

Her: That's why you're fat and bald. It's the pea soup! It's going to kill you one day. You'll be sitting there, staring out the window, and then bam! Dead! From the pea soup.

(I make a note to myself to Google the evils of pea soup).

He blinks in confusion and looks around to see if she might be squint, and actually not talking to him at all. But she then sticks her index finger in his face and wiggles it around menacingly. She's clearly talking to him.

Her: Peas are evil. Soup is bad. I keep telling you that you need vegetables, but soup is not a vegetable!

He finally speaks: I don't know what you're talking about. I don't even like peas.

Her: You bloody Asians. You're all liars with your bloody peas. Green is not a good colour on you!

(Now this is the interesting part. He is not Asian. She is. The plot thickens...)

He's now adopted a strategy of just ignoring her. So he turns his back to her, pretends there isn't some pissed off tiny Asian woman screaming her lungs out at him, and stares out the window. As Julia Roberts would say: Big mistake. Huge mistake. This only infuriates her even more. She ups her game and starts yelling at him about pumpkins and how orange does not taste good, but then what did he expect, as orange is close to red, and red is the worst of them all. And then she turns to the rest of us and informs us that we're all fat and ugly too, and shouldn't expect to live long because of our soup-eating proclivities.

She has gone too far. Another woman now gets up, and tells the angry Asian menace that she should just shut up, because no one wants to hear her crazy ranting.

Asian lady to other lady: You are discriminating against me because I'm black!

Other lady to Asian lady: You are not black.

Asian lady: Aha! You admit you would discriminate against me if I was black? You also eat too much soup.

Alas, the bus pulls up to my stop, so I'm destined to never find out if the other woman indeed eats too much soup, or how the whole thing plays out. I consider staying on the bus while it does its next half hour loop around our part of the city, but figure that's taking eavesdropping a tad too far.

I barely cross the block when I run into another bus parked on the side of the road with a fire truck and 3 ambulances next to it. The driver informs me that a passenger had a heart attack while on the bus. He looks at me blankly when I ask if the guy had been eating pea soup at the time. At least, the driver and their emergency services reacted quickly, and the guy is going to be fine.

I tell you, public transport is not for sissies. Neither is soup apparently.







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Eavesdroppers and "death-threaters"

Public transport is a new experience for me. In Joburg, if you want to go somewhere, you hop in your car, and off you go. There are no weirdos in your car, except for yourself and your weirdo friends, who will generally be there by invitation, depending on whatever boundary issues you might have with them. You control the environment in terms of the temperature, what music you listen to, etc.

In Toronto, if you don't own a car, there are a lot of different ways to get around. Taxis, however, are quite expensive, and I don't do bicycles. Or skateboards. Or rollerblades. Or anything else that requires you to strap wheels to your feet. So if it's too far to walk, I use a bus, streetcar or subway train.

People generally bug me on account of my misanthropic tendencies, so I keep reminding myself to take my iPod with me, so I can tune everyone out. What I keep forgetting though, is that I am an avid eavesdropper. If there's an interesting private conversation happening that I shouldn't be listening to - I want to to hear it. If people whisper a conversation, I've been known to ask them to speak up, so that I'm better able to overhear them.

So each time I'm on public transport and reaching for the earphones, I'll catch some tidbit that will make me hesitate to put them on. And it's amazing the things you can learn. For example, a few days ago, I learned that the phrase "death threat" which I always thought was a compound noun, can actually be used as a verb. The sentence went something like this: "And do you know what that bastard did to me? He like totally deaththreated me!"

Who says an education has to cost anything?

So yesterday, I'd finished a few hours of clothes shopping (which I hate) and left Eaton Centre to head home. I caught the subway at Queen Station, got off at Eglington Station and then caught the bus from there. I had a sniffer near me, which is enough to push me over the edge, so I reached for my iPod.

Not long after, all hell broke loose.

To be continued....


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Sprinklers, dodgy characters and twinkly, pre-dawn lights...

Okay, so in our last post, we trashed Canadian service with regards to their largest cellphone provider company: Rogers. We, are however, also quick to give praise where praise is due, so in this post I'll focus on things that Canada gets right.

Yesterday, I was working from home, when I noticed the mailman walking with his satchel delivering regular-sized post into mailboxes. He was attacked by a tiny dog wearing a Batman cape, so all seemed well with the world. About half an hour later though, a van pulled up, and this was another mailman from Canada Post delivering parcels that are too big for the regular dude to carry. I saw him take out a few large boxes, walk to various doors, ring their bells, and then just leave the boxes outside their doors when no one answered. And then he drove away.

WTF?

I was astounded. How could he be so irresponsible? Those parcels looked like they contained important stuff and yet, there he was, leaving them outside in the open, for just anyone to help themselves to them.

I needed more information. So, I covered my face in black paint, put on my camo gear, leopard-crawled outside, did a few dodges behind bushes, whistled innocently, sidled up to a few packages and confirmed what I'd thought. They contained books, DVDs, goods ordered off websites, clothes and other cool loot. And yup, it was all just sitting there. Waiting to be stolen.

I wished I'd taken that irresponsible mailman's details, so I could give it to the various neighbors, who would be highly pissed off to come home, and discover their stuff had been affirmatively shopped by passers-by. I jumped into a hedge, thinking I'd be on the lookout for dodgy characters, but after 10 boring minutes, I realised I was the dodgiest character there, so I went back inside.

A few hours later, I walked the dogs and the parcels were still there. And then a few hours after that, people started arriving home and taking their parcels inside. Nobody appeared shocked to see their packages waiting on their porches. Nobody stuck their fist in the air, shaking it about and swearing anguished revenge on thieves or stupid postal workers.

And then, at 4am this morning, Muggle stuck her wet nose in my eye, which means, "I need to go widdle Mommy", and I felt too bad to elbow Poodle in the ribs and make him do it, which is what I normally do. He did, after all, start work yesterday. So, I put her lead on, and took her outside in the dark, in the pre-dawn, in the city, to walk her to a nearby park. And the excursion was without incident. Or would have been if she didn't squat on a sprinkler-head that popped up at exactly that moment to drench us both! (Any awake Canadians learnt a few new South African words at that point like: fok, bliksem, fokken bliksem, etc). But it was 28 degrees, and a balmy wind was blowing, and the city to the East was twinkly and hushed, so we didn't mind too much. We were content and happy to be out. It was actually quite a sacred moment - Toronto and I bonded.

And when we walked back to our apartment, I saw one of the packages still waiting outside someone's door, and I thought: That's pretty damn cool.

So I dashed up, cackled wildly, stole it, and Muggle and I made our get-away. Those bloody trusting, naive Canadians need to learn the hard way. Just not sure what we're going to do with a jumbo box of diapers?


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Few photos from our first two weeks in Toronto

Just a few random photos from our first two weeks in Toronto. Haven't had much time to play.




Our 400kgs of IKEA furniture gets delivered




Poodle gets cracking putting the bed together




Me hard at work putting the couch together




Big bike culture in Toronto. Anything goes in terms of proper kit.




The condos at the harbourfront. Imagine our cats on the 30th floor!




Lots of construction happening




The CN Tower. Look at the people hanging off the top!




Art is everywhere




Toronto is a city of pooches. Love it.




People are very active




Lots of buildings downtown




The lovely park near our home




Our street :-)

The not-so-jolly Roger

A combined-effort post by the Poodles:

It doesn't matter how much we prepared and researched stuff before leaving, there are unfortunately a lot of things that can only get done once you have landed..... and some only after divine intervention. Or after getting Tom Cruise to admit that he's gay. And we all know divine intervention would happen before that...

The Canadian government departments have been really efficient and widespread, so there was no need to travel far or pitch a tent in the waiting lines. Unless you're a pervert and enjoy pitching tents in public. Hey, whatever floats your boat... Getting our SIN numbers (not as exciting as they sound) and medical cards were a doddle, and we were really dreading the processes, because we were having flashbacks to Home Affairs in SA.

Signing up for our bank accounts was a pleasure. Our banker is really friendly and has walked us through the whole process. He also suggested restaurants, places to see, and how to earn air miles to go home to visit Australia. Doh. It does, however, take long to issue bank cards which is a bit of a problem, but not a train smash. We are, after all, South African, and know how to steal other people's bank cards in the interim.

Getting access to public transport and learning how it works was relatively easy, as was signing up on the phone for gas and tenant insurance. Buying and assembling IKEA furniture is tricky the first time, but makes you feel like a real winner when you finish something (even if it takes 7 attempts and 12 hours to assemble a toilet seat).

But...... Here is where it all falls to shit. Dealing with Canada's largest mobile network company called Rogers. They probably called it that because they like to roger you. A lot. You heard it here: Rogers is the devil.

We have heard countless people moaning about them constantly, but those people also moaned about the public transport and everything else, which didn't turn out to be that bad. So we thought: how bad could the biggest mobile network really be?

The answer is: farking bad!

We have had at least 10 visits to their stores (totaling more than 10 hours spent in the actual stores - and they don't serve cocktails, so you wouldn't want to linger). This was to simply get prepaid data on our iPads, prepaid on our phones and internet for our PC.

The biggest (supposed) stumbling block is our lack or Canadian ID. This didn't bother the rental agency, the bank, or indeed the Canadian Government..

After many, many attempted workarounds where the largest mobile provider attempted to "fix" my laptop (using the little sandwich shop next door's wifi no less) we were forced to concede defeat like Napoleon at Waterloo....

So this means, we can get the iPad data at double the cost, the iPhone data at triple the cost and half the functionality , and apparently it is impossible to get internet on our laptop. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe the internet "stick" have powers we are unaware of. Maybe, with us not being Canadian, they're scared we'll use the "stick" to mobilize our army of Moose-hating robots.

We're waiting for next month when our Permanent Resident cards arrive, to hear that blonde, balding men can't get internet, until they shave their legs or learn to cha cha. And Poodle can't dance. So there goes the robot army.

Sent from my iPad


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Oh. My. Gawd

Oh. My. Gawd.

They say that some of the most stressful events in a person's life include moving house, bereavement, losing your job, planning a wedding and a few other things. In the last two months, we have moved continents, said goodbye to everything and everyone we love (and feel like we're suffering from bereavement), quit our jobs and planned a farewell party that had almost the same amount of guests as our wedding. When I tell you that we are physically and emotionally drained, I am not exaggerating. Which I'm very prone to doing, so I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me ;-)

The move has been the biggest, most scary, most stressful, most emotional event we've ever experienced in our lives, and nothing... nothing at all... (not even the years of extensive research I did) could prepare us for it.

And yet here we are. In Toronto. 5 sleeps after arriving. Still functioning after a 25 hour commute, going through immigration, signing up for bank accounts, SIN numbers, insurance, moving into a new apartment, buying over 400kgs of furniture at IKEA, putting all this furniture together ourselves, shopping and trying to equip a home without a car to carry groceries and supplies in, navigating our way via public transport around a strange city, etc.

And all I can say is... What the fuck were we thinking?

What the hell kind of drugs were we on that we thought this was a good idea? Holy shit. I would consider Poodle and myself to be above average intelligence, though I'm sure a few of you farkers would disagree. So all I can think is that we had a brain fart one year or that we've been suffering from temporary insanity. Poodle has always been a bit odd, so I'm leaning toward that explanation.

Why else would we take our wonderful, ordered, predictable, stable lives and turn them arse over kettle?

Probably because despite our exhaustion and bewilderment, and the fact that we're missing everyone terribly, we've never felt quite so alive. So tuned into the universe. So absolutely thrilled to wake up in the morning and wonder: What adventure and novelty and education can we expect from today?

Details and photos of our misadventures to follow....



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2 sleeps left

Where has the last month gone? It seems that in between getting rid of furniture, packing up, saying goodbye to people, making arrangements, dealing with admin and planning our farewell party, a whole month has managed to disappear into the vortex of lost things.

Which leaves us now at two sleeps before we leave.

The last week has been rather challenging. We decided that we didn't want to be rushing around at the very last minute trying to clear out our house, so we've been getting rid of furniture for the last few weeks. Which has left us, during the last week, living like squatters in a few rooms in our home. It's amazing how little you actually need in order to function.

This is what my office ended up consisting of...









The cooler box doubling up as a desk was my inspired idea. Meant that the drinks were closer when we needed them. I can now understand why computers and monitors can't be put on the floor - the dogs were constantly trying to send emails to their pen pooches.

It wasn't as tough as we thought it would be saying goodbye to most of our possessions, though Poodle was quite heartbroken to say goodbye to the dishwasher that saved him a lot of elbow grease...





With our bed being taken last Monday, we decided to move all our meager possessions into the lounge.





Which, despite being a bit trailer-trashy, worked out quite nicely as it allowed us to sleep next to the fireplace every night.





We are now officially packed up and ready to move. Whether or not we're ready to leave is entirely another question.

The glass is half full

Since we found out, two and a half months ago, that our visas were approved for Canada, I've tried really hard to focus on all the positive aspects: the travel, the excitement, a new adventure, an opportunity to realize our dreams, new life experiences, etc. This is something we've wanted and planned for 5 years, so of course there are many, many things to look forward to.

What I've also tried really hard to avoid is dwelling on the negative aspects of our move, which mostly boil down to leaving our wonderful friends and family, because I know we're going to miss them terribly.

While we're away, there's a lot that we'll miss out on. Like seeing our godchildren grow up and witnessing their daily triumphs. Will I know when Ella's favorite colour changes from "rainbow", and that she's now writing all her letters facing the right way? (Though I prefer her current style of writing the letter "n"). Will I know when Nommie stops stuffing her T Shirt with my socks, and when she gets her first bra?

There are pregnancies and births that we'll miss out on. New romances and engagements and weddings. Everyday events like supper club and quiz night. My father's 65th birthday and my brother's 40th. Impromptu lunches at Papachinos with the gang, and weekend braais with the family.

Especially difficult is worrying about everyone's welfare. Will our folks stay healthy while we're away? Will my 89 year old gogo stay strong into her 90s? What happens if there's a crisis and we're not there?

It's enough to make a control freak like me turn tail and give it all up just so that I can be around. Not that I have any control over everyone's welfare and happiness even when I'm in SA, but these things aren't logical.

So when these negative and worrying thoughts crowd in, I try to go back to focusing on the positives:

1. There are dozens of ways for us all to keep in touch: Facebook, email, BBM, WhatsApp, Skype, phone calls, sms, etc. I remember after high school when a friend of mine, Dimitri, moved to Greece. The only way to stay in touch then was writing and mailing letters! I especially remember when Bron and Shayne moved to Zim, and I couldn't get through on the phone for a few weeks. I got quite hysterical only to discover that elephants had knocked the lines down, and it took ages to get them up and running. Err, the lines, not the elephants. The telephone poles barely broke their stride.

2. Most of my friends and family are a bit scared of me, so they'll answer my constant stream of questions about favorite colours, morning sickness, first dates, quiz scores, etc.

3. People can come visit! We have a spare room and are prepared to travel to meet up! We're already booked to see the Broombergs in December, Don and Pierre in Vegas in March and my family in the Caribbean near the end of next year. All occasions that I'll be counting the sleeps until.

4. Some of my best friends have lived overseas for years, and the distance has actually strengthened our bond. (Love you Charmz and Craigie).

5. We are always just a plane ride away if we're needed back in SA for whatever reason. We will always, always be there for those we love... that will never change.

It's a balancing act - each day we walk a fine line between excitement and despair. All we can do is trust that it will all work out the way it's meant to, and hope that the universe will be kind.


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"Work" - it's a four letter word

So far, we've dealt with the issues of where we're going to live in Toronto, getting our pets across there, what we're going to do about furniture and how we're going to deal with the transport issue.

Now we get to what we're going to do to earn an income. It really is kinda scary to quit jobs that you really love and that earn you a decent living, especially in this economy. Especially since we pretty much can't apply for work until we get there and have applied for social security numbers.

Which means that when we leave South Africa, we'll be totally and utterly, for the very first time in our lives.... *whispers the word* unemployed.

Argh! If that isn't enough to give a control freak Capricorn an ulcer attack, then I don't know what is! I've been employed since I was 16 years old and in Std 9 for God's sake. I had two jobs at that point: I was waitressing at the Spur some nights, and working at Woolies over weekends. Being independent has always been extremely important to me, which is why I even left studying full time, so I could work and finish my degrees part time. Which has now come back to bite me in the wazoo.

Good old UNISA is not recognized as an acceptable institution by the Canadians, so as far as they're concerned, I have finished high school and that's it! Stephen is sorted because his degrees were done at Wits and then last year, he qualified for his CIMA which is internationally recognized.

So while he'll probably get work as a Management Accountant/Financial Manager, I'll need to re-evaluate what I'm qualified to do.

Hmmm, here's the list:

1. Waitress
2. Barmaid - though not in a wine bar as I'll get fired for drinking all the stock
3. Someone who stalks dogs to get urine samples (have a lot of experience in that)
4. A professional Scrabble/Words with Friends/Draw Something player
5. Dog walker (though I think I need more qualifications for that!)
6. Person who puts food in the microwave to heat it
7. Someone who takes on everyone else's shit, and then lies awake at night worrying about their problems on their behalf
8. A Guinea pig for research into ulcer medication
9. A stripper in a club for blind men
10. An advisor for the "Build a Papachinos in Toronto" project. I'm an expert on Papachinos. Tracey and Ethan can vouch for me!

Eish, I might remain unemployed for a while *gulp*




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Goodbye car, my old friend

Another big decision that we've had to make with the big move is whether or not to buy cars.

Now, as most of you know, South African culture is big on cars. We'll get into our cars to drive to a park to go walking. Or get into our cars to drive 200m to our local shopping centre. Hell, sometimes we just get into our cars and sit there without going anywhere because we love them so much.

It's very scary, but the only time you'll see white, middle-class South Africans walking anywhere without wondering if they've been hijacked is if they have their dogs with them as props to indicate that they do indeed have cars, they're just not using them right then. I've even seen people walking their dogs while they're driving and the dogs are running behind their cars. Seriously.





So, considering forgoing a car is a big deal for a South African. I mean, what's a boot for if not to fill up with Woolies' meals and wine? If I don't have a car, I won't have a boot and thus I'll have to carry all my Woolies' meals and wine? Gasp!

But that's exactly what we've decided to do. Forgo the cars.

What's the point of going on an adventure and wanting to experience all new things if you're going to cling to the old ways of doing things?

So no cars will mean that we'll have to use public transport. Now the last time I used public transport in South Africa, was 18 years ago when I was at varsity and I had to catch the bus to RAU every day. Not at all a fun commute when you suffer from car sickness, and the bus driver seems hell bent on seeing how much he can make the bus rock and sway without actually tipping it over. The fact that I was generally hung over during these trips didn't help. Early morning lectures would find me pale and sickly in the bathrooms which would explain my awful varsity marks. (Thanks again Delia for taking all those notes for me! I wouldn't have gotten my degree without you!).

Luckily Toronto has a decent Transit system, although if you ask any of them, they'll say it's kak. Okay, they won't say "kak" because they don't know "kak" but they'll say the Canadian equivalent. But to a South African, a city that has buses, trams, subways and trains is really jacked.





And huge bonus? They allow dogs on public transport! This is gonna get interesting ;-)





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Relocating the zoo

One of the major bonuses of moving to Canada is that there is no quarantine for your pets. A lot of countries make you put your furry babies in quarantine for up to 7 months, and I'm sorry, but how could you banish these faces for that long?











Note: If you don't think my pets are cute as sin, zip your lip or just lie. White lies are easy and socially acceptable. After all, I've told a lot of parents that their bald, cone-head, forcep-delivery, jaundiced babies are adorable.

So part of the whole preparation phase includes getting all 4 of our pets' injections up to date etc, which is what I spent this morning doing.

This is how it went:

Was wildly optimistic and loaded 2 cats and 2 dogs into the car and pulled off.
Within 2 seconds, ended up with a cat wrapped around my face with its claws embedded in my skull, and a Golden Retriever on my lap.
Reversed and decided optimism was wildly overrated. Popped a few Gavascon, offloaded the 2 cats, and headed to the vet with just the pooches.

It's hard to drive with a 26kg dog on your lap licking your face with the kind of enthusiasm only a puppy can maintain for such a task, but not impossible.
Got to the vet in one piece.

Opened the door and the dogs bounded out, ready for a walk. The bounding lasted thirty seconds until they realized they were at the vet, after which they rolled over, played dead and refused to budge.

Dobby, the Daschund, is 12kgs, so she's easy to carry. Muggle, the large golden one, is not. You can't even drag her when she puts her mind to being contrary.
So with a lot of grunting, groaning, pleading, sweating, pushing, pulling, threatening and swearing, I finally managed to get them inside. Where Muggle made straight for the treats, where she polished off a large amount of the really expensive ones before I could get to her. Revenge is sweet apparently.

An hour later, I was back home to drop off the pooches, pop more Gavascon, load up the kitties (this time in cages), and head out again. Note to self : always take your iPod when traveling with cats, so you don't need to listen to the blood-curdling hissing and yowling. It's like listening to the soundtrack of a particularly violent Kung Fu movie.

When I got back to the vet, I noticed the receptionist checking out my frothing white mouth, wondering if I didn't need a rabies shot. I had to explain about the Gavascon overdose.

Three hours later, covered in scratches, drool and fur (and a lot worse for wear), I'm home with 4 pets who have vaccinations and are ready for the jet setter lifestyle. Is it too early for a vase of wine?




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